The White Squaw. Майн Рид

in his tracks.

      After glancing cautiously around, as if endeavouring to pierce the thick darkness, he again advanced, again came to a stop, and remained listening. Once more came that cry, in which accents of anger were strangely commingled with tones appealing for help.

      This time the sound indicated the direction, and the listener’s resolution was at once taken.

      Thrusting aside the undergrowth, and trampling under foot the tall grass, he struck into a narrow path running parallel to the shore, and which led in the direction whence the cry appeared to have come.

      Though it was now quite dark, he seemed easily to avoid impediments, which even in broad daylight would have been difficult to pass.

      The darkness appeared no barrier to his speed, and neither the overhanging branches, nor the wood-bine roots stayed his progress.

      About a hundred paces further on, the path widened into a rift that led to an opening, sloping gradually down to the beach.

      On reaching its edge, he paused once more to listen for a renewal of the sound.

      Nothing save the familiar noises of the night greeted his ear.

      After a short pause, he kept on for the water’s edge, with head well forward, and eyes strained to penetrate the gloom.

      At that moment the moon shot out from behind a heavy bank of clouds, and, with a brilliant beam, disclosed to his eager gaze a tableau of terrible interest.

      Down by the water’s edge lay the body of an Indian youth, motionless, and to all appearance dead; while stooping over it was another youth, also an Indian. He appeared to be examining the body.

      For some seconds there was no change in his attitude. Then, all at once he raised himself erect, and with a tomahawk that flashed in the moonlight above his head, appeared in the act of dealing a blow.

      The hatchet descended; but not upon the body that lay prostrate.

      A sharp report ringing on the air for an instant silenced all other sounds. The would-be assassin sprang up almost simultaneously, and two corpses instead of one lay along the earth.

      So thought he who fired the shot, and who was the young man already described. He stayed not to speculate, but rushed forward to the spot where the two Indians lay. He had recognised them both. The one upon the ground was Nelatu, the son of Oluski, a distinguished Seminole chief. The other was Red Wolf, a well-grown youth belonging to the same tribe.

      Only glancing at the would-be assassin to see that he was dead, he bent over the body of Nelatu, placed his hand upon the region of his heart, at the same time anxiously scanning his features.

      Suddenly he uttered an exclamation of surprise. Beneath his fingers a weak pulsation gave signs of life. Nelatu might yet be saved.

      Pulling off his hat, he ran down to the beach, filled it with water, and, returning, sprinkled the forehead of the young Indian.

      Then taking a flask containing brandy from his pouch, he poured a portion of its contents down the throat of the unconscious youth.

      These kindly offices he repeated several times, and was finally rewarded for his pains. The blood slowly mantled Nelatu’s cheek; a shivering ran through his frame; and with a deep sigh he gazed dreamily upon his preserver, and at the same time faintly murmured “Warren.”

      “Yes, Warren! Speak, Nelatu. What is the meaning of this?”

      The Indian had only the strength to mutter the words “Red Wolf,” at the same time raising his hand to his side with apparent difficulty.

      The gesture made his meaning clear. Warren’s gaze rested upon a deep wound from which the blood was still welling.

      By the tremulous movement of his lips, Warren saw that he was endeavouring to speak again. But no sound came from them. His eyes gradually became closed. He had once more fainted.

      Warren instantly flung off his coat, tore one of the sleeves from his shirt, and commenced staunching the blood.

      After a time it ceased to flow, and then tearing off the second sleeve, with his braces knotted together, he bound up the wound.

      The wounded youth slowly recovered consciousness, and, looking gratefully up into his face, pressed the hand of his deliverer.

      “Nelatu owes Warren life. He will some day show his gratitude.”

      “Don’t think of that now. Tell me what has happened? I heard your cry, and hastened to your assistance.”

      “Not Nelatu’s cry,” responded the Indian, with a faint blush of pride suffusing his face. “Nelatu is the son of a chief. He knows how to die without showing himself a woman. It was Red Wolf who cried out.”

      “Red Wolf!”

      “Yes; Red Wolf is a coward—a squaw; ’twas he who cried out.”

      “He will never cry out again. Look there!” said Warren, pointing to the lifeless corpse that lay near.

      Nelatu had not yet seen it. Unconscious of what had transpired, he believed that Red Wolf, supposing him dead, had gone away from the spot.

      Warren explained.

      Still more gratefully did the Indian youth gaze upon the face of his preserver.

      “You had an encounter with Red Wolf? I can see that, of course; it was he who gave you this wound?”

      “Yes, but I had first defeated him. I had him on the ground in my power. I could have taken his life. It was then that, like a coward, he called for help.”

      “And after?”

      “I pitied and let him rise. I expected him to leave me, and go back to the village. He feared that I might speak of his defeat to our tribe, and for this he determined that my tongue should be for ever silent. I was not thinking of it when he thrust me from behind. You know the rest.”

      “And why the quarrel?”

      “He spoke wicked words of my sister, Sansuta.”

      “Sansuta!” exclaimed Warren, a strange smile overshadowing his features.

      “Yes; and of you.”

      “The dog; then he doubly deserved death. And from me!” he added, in a tone not loud enough for Nelatu to hear, “what a lucky chance.”

      As he said this he spurned the body with his foot.

      Then turning to the Indian, he asked—

      “Do you think you could walk a little, Nelatu?”

      The brandy had by this time produced an effect. Its potent spirit supplied the loss of blood, and Nelatu felt his strength returning to him.

      “I will try,” said the wounded youth. “Nelatu’s hour has not yet come. He must not die till he has paid his debt to Warren.”

      “Then lean on me. My canoe is close by. Once in it you can rest at your ease.”

      Nelatu nodded consent.

      Warren assisted him to rise, and, half carrying, half supporting, conducted him to the canoe.

      Carefully helping him aboard, he shoved the craft from the shore, and turned its prow in the direction of the white settlement.

      The moon, that had become again obscured, once more burst through the black clouds, lighting up the fronds of the feathery palms that flung their shadows far over the pellucid waves.

      The concert of the nocturnal forest, for a time stayed by the report of the rifle, burst out anew as the boat glided silently out of sight.

Chapter